Is Beatrix Potter the greatest of all children’s writers? No, I don’t think so. But she might be the greatest of all children’s authors. She didn’t simply write: she wrote and drew, creating very clever and funny stories that almost have the quality of folk-tales or myths. C.S. Lewis said that Squirrel Nutkin (1902) “troubled me with what I can only describe as the Idea of Autumn.” It was his “second experience” of the bittersweet longing that he described in his autobiography Surprised by Joy (1955).

The other Potter books, although he “loved them all”, he found “merely entertaining”. Squirrel Nutkin is one of my favourites too, but I don’t find the rest “merely entertaining”. There is something epic, on a miniature scale, about Peter Rabbit’s adventures in Mr. McGregor’s garden. Those are in the book that began everything, The Tale of Peter Rabbit (1902). I was disturbed by the fate of Peter’s father – “put into a pie by Mrs. McGregor” – and by the cat staring at the goldfish when I was young, so I’m almost glad that I never read The Tale of Mr. Tod (1912) until I was grown-up. It’s the darkest and deathliest of Potter’s stories and I wonder if she had the German word Tod in mind when she named the eponym, as Evelyn Waugh did when he created a character called Mr. Todd for A Handful of Dust (1934).

The story was certainly meant as something new, as the opening two lines make clear:

I have made many books about well-behaved people. Now, for a change, I am going to make a story about two disagreeable people, called Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod.

Tommy Brock, a “short bristly fat waddling person with a grin”, is a badger and Mr. Tod, “of a wandering habit” and detectable by odour “half a mile off”, is a fox. Mr. Tod wanders through the story too: it’s Tommy Brock who’s on stage more often. His affability and his joke about “not hav[ing] a square meal for a fortnight” disarm a rabbit grandfather called Old Mr. Bouncer, who is looking after his “rabbit-baby” grandchildren while his daughter Flopsy and son-in-law Benjamin are out. Mr. Bouncer invites Tommy into the family rabbit-hole “to taste a slice of seedcake” and a glass of his “daughter Flopsy’s cowslip wine”. But he falls asleep as Tommy smokes a “cabbage leaf” cigar, only to wake and discover that both Tommy and his grandchildren have disappeared.

Tommy has carried them off in a sack. When his daughter gets back: “He was in disgrace; Flopsy wrung her ears, and slapped him.” Benjamin sets off to track Tommy, helped by the deepness of his footprints under the weight of the sack. It turns out that Tommy has carried the babies off to one of Mr. Tod’s many residences: “something between a cave, a prison, and a tumble-down pig-stye” that stands in the middle of a wood. Benjamin and his cousin Cottontail see how the “setting sun made the window panes glow like red flame”. When Benjamin peeps through a window, he sees “preparations upon the kitchen table that made him shudder”: “an immense empty pie-dish of blue willow pattern, and a large carving knife and fork, and a chopper”, plus “a plate, a tumbler, a knife and fork, salt-cellar, mustard” – “in short, preparations for one person’s supper.”

But that one person, Tommy Brock, has gone to bed in Mr. Tod’s bed “in his boots”, leaving the rabbit-babies still alive, but “shut in the oven!” There’s a sinister atmosphere in this story and it’s as close as Potter got to the Brothers Grimm. But the sinister atmosphere is part of the black humour, which gets even stronger when Mr. Tod turns up, not at all pleased to discover that Tommy has, yet again, taken over one of his homes. He decides to take revenge on the loudly snoring – and apparently deeply asleep – Tommy, but his cunning plan backfires. That’s why Benjamin is able to get his children back. He, like Flopsy and Cottontail, had appeared before in a Potter story: she created a world, not just individual stories.

Black humour had appeared before in her stories too, particularly in “The Tale of Samuel Whiskers, or the Roly-Poly Pudding”. It’s about Tom Kitten, who has a narrow escape when he goes exploring the old house he lives in:

All at once he fell head over heels in the dark, down a hole, and landed on a heap of very dirty rags.

When Tom Kitten picked himself up and looked about him – he found himself in a place that he had never seen before, although he had lived all his life in the house.

It was a very small stuffy fusty room, with boards, and rafters, and cobwebs, and lath and plaster.

Opposite to him – as far away as he could sit – was an enormous rat.

“What do you mean by tumbling into my bed all covered with smuts?” said the rat, chattering his teeth.

“Please sir, the chimney wants sweeping,” said poor Tom Kitten.

“Anna Maria! Anna Maria!” squeaked the rat. There was a pattering noise and an old woman rat poked her head round a rafter.

All in a minute she rushed upon Tom Kitten, and before he knew what was happening–

He’s trussed in string and the enormous rat, Samuel Whiskers, is telling Anna Maria “to make me a kitten dumpling roly-poly pudding for my dinner”. The text goes perfectly with the drawings and I can read that single line – “‘Anna Maria! Anna Maria!’ squeaked the rat.” – again and again, because it’s so simple and so funny. Tom Kitten, like the rabbit-babies in The Tale of Mr. Tod, escapes his impending doom, but he gets nearer to it than they did: he’s been rolled in dough, with only his head and tail sticking out, when the terrier John Joiner, called in by his mother to find her missing son, manages to interrupt proceedings by sawing through the floorboards under which the two rats are living.

The rats flee, although Samuel Whiskers has first remarked to Anna Maria that he doubts the pudding would have been good: “I am persuaded that the knots would have proved indigestible, whatever you may urge to the contrary.” That’s funny and formal English, not funny and simple: Potter has the same variety and delicacy of touch in her writing as she has in her drawing. There’s another good example of a funny line in The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse (1910), when the toad Mr. Jackson encounters another of Mrs. Tittlemouse’s uninvited guests:

He met Babbity round a corner, and snapped her up, and put her down again.

“I do not like bumble bees. They are all over bristles,” said Mr. Jackson, wiping his mouth with his coat-sleeve.

“Get out, you nasty old toad!” shrieked Babbitty Bumble.

Again the line is perfectly set up and very funny. Potter’s animals are antagonistic as well as amicable. Her stories might sometimes be simply written, but they’re not saccharine or soppy. Even in the first, The Tale of Peter Rabbit (1902), there’s comi-tragedy: remember that Peter’s father was “put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor”. Potter had a sad story herself, as the biographical notes and introductions to each story describe: her parents educated her at home and kept her away from other children. She found consolation in art and animals, then the two brought her success and fame through her books.

Then they seemed to bring her a husband too: her publisher Frederick Warne proposed marriage; she accepted; and they became engaged. But he died only a few weeks later of “pernicious anaemia” and although she did eventually marry, she never had children of her own. Instead, she became perhaps the greatest of children’s authors, combining life and death, sunshine and sadness, in stories that have delighted millions of children for over a century. This collection brings all of those stories together, from the famous to the obscure, from the ones that display literary genius to the ones that aren’t so successful.

Reading a book in childhood is like visiting an island. You land, you explore, you sail away. That’s when the island starts to sink. Sometimes it sinks quickly, vanishing beneath the sea, swallowed into the subconscious. I’ve completely forgotten a lot of books I read in my childhood. But sometimes a literary island sinks slowly and incompletely, leaving reefs and outcrops. A powerful story can stay with you for life.

The Plague Dogs was like that for me. It’s a long time since I last read it, but parts of it had stayed with me, never sinking into the subconscious. Things that never sank included the sounds and smells of experimental pigeons in a darkened laboratory and old Tyson’s “R.N.K. theory” about the origins of their homing instinct: “Reckon nobody knaws” (pg. 28). Other parts weren’t far underwater and I remembered them as I read, like the monkey kept isolated in a tank until it becomes catatonic. But some of it had sunk beyond recall, like the fox who meets Rowf and Snitter, the dogs of the title who have escaped from a research laboratory in the Lake District. Why did I remember the pigeons and forget the fox, when the pigeons are gone in a couple of pages and the fox – “the tod” – is there chapter after chapter, behaving and talking in a highly memorable way?

Tod smells memorable too, particularly to a dog: Snitter and Rowf think that he has a “wild” and “exciting” smell, “a sharp, killing smell, a furtive smell, trotting, preying, slinking through the darkness” (pg. 92). Like Adams’ much more famous Watership Down (1972), this book is good at invoking the sensory world of animals and making you experience the world through their eyes, nose and ears. But Watership Down is much more famous partly because it’s a much better book. It also has an uplifting theme, not a upsetting one. It’s about animals finding new lives, not animals being tortured in the name of science.

And for me the island of Watership Down never sank beneath the waves, because I’ve never stopped re-reading it. It’s a strange, haunting and beautiful book, with more seasons and fewer humans in it than The Plague Dogs. It has more landscapes too. The Plague Dogs takes place from Friday 15th October to Saturday 27th November in the bleak landscape of the Lake District: hills, stones, tarns and occasional trees, as described by Adams and drawn by Alfred Wainwright. The drawings are usually better than the text, because they aren’t experimental or extravagant. Adams has one big experiment in Watership Down and it works: the invention of Lapine, the rabbit-language. Like Lovecraft’s Cthulhu and R’lyeh, Adams’ Thayli and Hlao-roo are anti-anthropocentric, loosening the mind’s hold on the familiar, making us think from a new perspective.

He doesn’t invent a new language for this book, but Snitter the fox-terrier is like Fiver the under-sized rabbit in Watership Down. They’re both visionaries, but Snitter’s visions are wilder and less believable, because he’s had brain-surgery at the laboratory from which he and Rowf have escaped. The laboratory, a “former fell farm on the east side of Coniston Water”, is called “Animal Research, Scientific and Experimental”, or “A.R.S.E”, for short. That kind of crude satire doesn’t go well with high-flown passages like this one, describing the food fed in individual packages to the dogs being experimented on at the laboratory:

It were, as Sir Thomas Browne says, an excellent quaere to consider, privatim et seriatim, what drugs, what charms, what conjuration and what mighty magic these packages contained. They were indeed miracles of rare device. One included, infused with the liver and offal, stimulants able to banish sleep, or to cause the consumer to perform, on the morrow, prodigies of endurance – to fight, to fast, to tear himself, to drink up eisel [vinegar], eat a crocodile. Others contained paralytics which suspended colour perception, hearing, taste, smell; analgesics destroying the ability to feel pain, so that the subject stood wagging his tail while a hot iron was drawn along his ribs; hallucinogens able to fill the eye of the beholder with more devils than vast hell can contain, to transform the strong to weaklings, the resolute to cowards, to plunge the intelligent and alert head over ears into idiocy. (“Fit I”, pg. 17)

Passages like that remind me of what Housman says about Swinburne’s attitude to literature: “he dragged this subject into the midst of all other subjects, and covered earth and sky and man with the dust of the library”. Adams knows a lot about literature, but doesn’t always know how to wear his knowledge lightly. He tries to imitate Dickens too: he crowds the book with characters, many of them supposed to be grotesque, like Digby Driver, an amoral crusading journalist, and Bernard Bugwash, the M.P. for Lakeland Central. But few of them come to life: he doesn’t have Dickens’ vivificative powers.

One human who does come partly to life – Geoffrey Westcott, a bank-clerk from Windermere – ends up being eaten by Rowf and Snitter. That’s something else I’d forgotten. Perhaps it wasn’t memorable because Rowf and Snitter don’t truly come to life themselves. Not for me, at least, but then I didn’t like dogs much when I was young and like them even less now. That’s part of why it’s taken me so long to re-read this book. It’s powerful in patches, despite the occasional silliness and longueurs, and although in some ways it made me think less of Adams as an author, in another way it made me think more. Watership Down was the first book I read by him and I got the impression there that he didn’t think much of dogs. This is from a story about how El-ahrairah, the rabbits’ legendary prince of thieves, tricks a dog called Rowsby Woof:

“I am the Fairy Wogdog, messenger of the great dog-spirit of the East, Queen Dripslobber. Far, far in the East her palace lies. Ah, Rowsby Woof, if only you could see her mighty state, the wonders of her kingdom! The carrion that lies far and wide upon the sands! The manure, Rowsby Woof! The open sewers! Oh, how you would jump for joy and run nosing about!” […]

“Oh, Fairy Wogdog!” cried Rowsby Woof. “What joy it will be to grovel and abase myself before the Queen! How humbly I shall roll upon the ground! How utterly I shall make myself her slave! What menial cringing will be mine! I will show myself a true dog!” (ch. 41, “The Story of Rowsby Woof and the Fairy Wogdog”)

Rowsby Woof is “the most objectionable, malicious, disgusting brute that ever licked a man’s hand”, and he’s rightly deceived by El-ahrairah’s lies about Queen Dripslobber and her two “noble attendants, the fairies Postwiddle and Sniffbottom”. But Adams isn’t expressing his own disdain for dogs: he’s expressing the disdain of rabbits in the story. I realized that when I read The Plague Dogs. It doesn’t satirize dogs, it sympathizes with them. Unfortunately, I’m still with the rabbits. I don’t like dogs and I don’t think this book is half as good as Watership Down. But its flaws make it interesting and it captures something of the Lake District and something of England in a vanished era, the 1970s. And if you like dogs, you’ll probably like it more than me, because there is a happy ending.